I think I'm getting soft. Here I left you all with a lovely cliff hanger and now I'm publishing this. I'm blaming it on the fact that I am sick and need some happiness in my life. Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews and anyone who has chosen to follow or favorite; all of these things make my day.
A special thanks again to my lovely beta Cassie.
Fun fact: Her very first fandom was Aladdin (back in the day when we had to keep our stories is spiral bound notebooks or if you were lucky on a floppy disc). Via her request I have thrown in a line from that Disney movie [fair warning- I had to tweak it a bit] into this work. Maybe you can find it. It could be a bit like finding the Pineapple in an episode of Psych! Or not. Anyway, I'll stop blabbering now. Here is chapter eight.
Something connected with the doctor's thigh with clear purpose. Already high on adrenaline and worry John began to spin around, his mind violently spitting out attack strategies and supplying images of what he expected to find before his eyes could funnel light into his optic nerve for confirmation.
Doctor John Hamish Watson was a man slight in stature, had been ever since his youth. People often took in his physical form, pleasant disposition, and wardrobe of choice and believed him to be an easy target. Those people were fools.
The most dangerous people often come across as the most typical. Those who have earned black belts after years of studying a martial art rarely flaunted their training and knowledge by wearing coats proclaiming the name of their dojo (a common mistake of white belts and other lower ranks) because they know the best weapon is the one no one sees coming.
Similarly John, a former cadet of Sandhurst, had a high competency with weapons of all kinds. Such was expected of any doctor who progressed into a regiment he was trained in hand to hand combat based off of Brazilian Jujutsu provided by the British army, and had picked up multiple fighting moves over the years while running the streets of London with his berk of a flat mate. Yes, Captain John Hamish Watson was a deadly fighter wrapped in innocuous wooly packaging and whoever was attempting to stop his search for Sherlock was about to feel the full extent of his rage.
The solider turned around to face his attacker, crimson already leeching into his vision fed by protective anger and worry only to be stopped numb in his tracks by the sight before him.
"Avast," the little voice crowed, "I be boardin' your ship!"
The doctor felt his legs begin to wobble as he bodily deflated. "Sherlock?" John's mouth was dry as his tongue attempted to form the word, tip sticking to the roof of the cave on the final syllable.
"Aye, tha's Capt'in Sherlock to you," a stick, John now realized it was what he must have felt against his leg, flourished in the air, "A hundred bad guys with sw'ards I've slew-ed, you'll be a hundred an' one!"
The doctor stood staring at the boy in question: feet shoulder width apart, forward hand holding his "sword," knees bent athletically. If John was in a more stable state of mind we would have recalled the time his best friend had reminisced about taking fencing in his youth.
"Smartly man," the child scolded tapping the taller man's leg twice more with the stick, "retrieve your cu'lass a'fore I made you walk the plank."
The graying blonde was suddenly in action, springing onto Sherlock and pulling the boy to his chest. Burying his nose into the dark hair John breathed in the odd mixture of Sherlock's expensive shampoo, and the salty odor of childhood sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut. Safe, Sherlock was safe.
"John?" Confusion was laced into every phoneme.
"What the hell," John stopped drawing a breath as he noticed his entire body was shaking from the unexploited adrenaline, "what the hell were you thinking Sherlock?"
"I…" The high voice warbled before dying off.
John pulled the child back from the embrace, holding him by his boney shoulders so he could look upon the young face, "I called for you," he removed his left hand using his index finger to point at the small chest his voice ghosting out in wisps of disapating worry, growing relief and barely contained anger, "I called and I looked and you weren't… you weren't there and you didn't answer."
John waited for an answer, but only received a wide eyed unblinking stare from the pale boy before him, the playful smile which had originally graced his face slipping until his lips fell flat.
"Do you know how scared I was that… that something happened to you? That you were hurt? Or that someone had taken you and I would never see you again?"
Sherlock's sword fell from his hand, landing in the decomposing leaves on the grove's floor. His chest rose and fell quick and erratically before his gray eyes screwed up. John's heart instantly broke.
"Shhh…" he hushed pulling the boy back to his being where Sherlock began burrowing into the doctor's jumper seeking comfort in the refuge that smelled of Earl Gray, sandalwood, clean linen, and some other scent which the child could only peg as John. "It's alright," Watson shushed allowing his body to fall back from his kneeling position so he and Sherlock could be more comfortable.
"Areyoumad?" The words ran together through the near silent tears so the doctor had to process the utterance for a moment before he understood.
"No. No I'm not mad, I'm sorry. I was just worried, if anything happened to you," unable to finish the thought aloud strong arms wrapped more tightly around the upset lad before pulling back so fingers could rub circles on the shuddering back.
Unsure of what else to do to calm his friend, John began to slowly sway back and forth as he hummed a lullaby from his own childhood, the words long lost to time, but the melody lingering on. Time passed without either taking notice of it until Sherlock began to quiet, his breath evening out until all was still.
"Ambush."
"Ambush?" The doctor repeated unsure where the word came from.
The tear lined face unburied from its home to look up at John, "It was an ambush, thas why I didn't answer."
"Ah," John leaned his head back until he felt the rough bark against his scalp letting the words sink in, "is that how you've slew a hundred men, John poked at Sherlock's sides until the child could not hold back his slight giggle, "by catching them off guard? That's not very sportsmen like."
"It's stra'gy, John," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "a'sides pirates is not a sport," the voice suddenly became very stern, "it's a way a' life."
John tried not to laugh at his young friend's seriousness. He had half thought Mycroft was joking when he stated that Sherlock had once truly intended to be a pirate, but from the thoughtful look on his face Sherlock saw this as a viable employment choice.
"Of course it is," John nodded seriously, "and I'm sure you'll be a great pirate, but until you man your own ship, perhaps you can tell me when you want to practice your piracy."
Sherlock began to chew his bottom lip, considering his friend's proposition before nodding his head in agreement.
"Good," John smiled running his hand through the child's locks. "Now I am famished. What do you say you and me find something to eat?"
Sherlock nodded eagerly, hopping off of John's lap so the man could get up.
XXX
After a lunch where John learned that little Sherlock had quite the weak point for chips the doctor and Sherlock headed back towards 221b Baker Street. The sun was setting, painting the cloudy sky a murky red.
"Red sky at night: sailor's delight," John muttered. He chuckled when he looked down at the small boy next to him. Sherlock peered up at John eyebrows furrowed in question of what he meant. The blonde happily clarified, "it's an old saying," he explained, "Red sky in the morning: sailors take warning, red sky at night: sailor's delight. If the sky is red in the morning, then there is a storm coming, but if it is red at night then you should have clear weather." John smiled, "I figured you might need to know that, what with how you're going to captain a ship, I don't want you rushing off into any storms."
Beside him Sherlock hummed as he contemplated this new piece of information. "You could come with me," the shorter of the two said after a moment, "you're a doctor, every ship needs a doctor, an' if you come you don't need to worry abou' me getting caught in a storm," the sentence was paused for a moment as the boy yawned widely "'cause you'd be with me."
John grinned at the mental image of the two flat mates bickering on the deck of a large pirate ship before he turned his attention back to his ward. When they had left the park not long ago Sherlock had taken John's hand (it seemed to be a childhood instinct) and kept step with the taller man. As blocks passed though the child had begun to slow and drag his feet that, paired with the recent yawn led John to a decision. He picked up the light body, positioning Sherlock so his good shoulder bared most of the weight.
"Jooooooohhhnnnnn!" Sherlock moaned attempting to wiggle out of the doctor's hold, "I'm four," the child huffed indigently, "'m not a baby. Put me down," once again the words were interrupted by a yawn, "I can walk."
"Oh hush up," John grinned, "you've had a big day and we'll get back faster if I carry you for a bit. Besides, you should enjoy this while you can. People don't offer to carry you when you get to be my age."
Sherlock snorted, but gave up his fight draping his arms on both sides of John's neck. The conversation died down for a moment before Sherlock began to murmur again, "an' you're a solider. So you… you know how to fight. No one would mess wi' us…" as this thought left his lips Sherlock seemed to drift off to sleep, lulled by the motion of John's step and comfort felt from the older man's body heat. John vaguely wondered if he should worry about the sheer amount of sleep Sherlock had gotten today, but calmed himself by remembering the transformation the detective had gone through and the needs of a younger body. Soft puffs of breath ghosted on John's neck as he turned the corner onto Baker Street.
The black door to 221b had been replaced it an exact replica, and when John inserted his key it turned with ease. Pushing it inward John viewed the entry way, now clear of sheets and more importantly a decaying scientist. Not one bloody fingerprint was left to evidence the events of the morning. If it was not for the bundle in his arms John may have convinced himself it was all some crazy dream, or hallucination brought about by one of Sherlock's experiments he had unknowingly consumed. Softly shutting the door and locking it John mounted the seventeen stairs, skillfully avoided the tenth which tended to whine when weight was applied to it. Reaching the flat the blonde elbowed open the door and stifled a gasp.
The sitting room which had always been cluttered with papers, dirty dishes, and various other …unique items was now spotless. The harpoon had been spirited away, and the coffee table was cleaned until it shined. Stepping in farther John turned to inspect the kitchen. Wide eyed he took in the tiled room where the table and counters had been cleared of any chemicals and seemed to be scrubbed within an inch of their lives. John was certain if he crossed to the refrigerator it would be vacant of any human body parts. The flat was clean, immaculate, just as the doctor had always wanted it. But then, why was his chest throbbing so heavily?
John knew the answer instantly. It was as though they had removed Sherlock. Swept, dusted, and bagged up all the evidence of his existence and tossed it into the bin without a thought. They had even removed him from the air, the odd mix of formaldehyde, chemicals, and slight cigarette smoke replaced with an over cheery flower mixture. The combination of all of it made the doctor's eyes sting, until he heard a soft snuffle by his ear.
No. John reminded himself, Sherlock was not gone. He was there right now, and this... all of this was done for his benefit, to keep him safe until they could bring him back to who he was. John nodded to reaffirm this fact in his mind as he marched Sherlock into the detective's room.
Laying the child down on the blue comforter the doctor began the task of carefully removing the shoes from the boy's feet. Sherlock was so deep though that John soon found he could move him about as needed without the detective becoming aware. Chuckling to himself because the psudo-coma was very much like the after case adult detective, when the doctor would have to spot the lanky man so he did not fall down the stairs John turned down the blankets and cautiously deposited his friend underneath. Leaving to retrieve Boswell from his perch on the leather chair the doctor returned to the room only to find his feet stuck at the threshold.
The kitchen light fell softly onto the bed, illuminating and highlighting how much of it was left empty around Sherlock. The boy was curled up into himself, taking up only half of one of the three pillows placed near the headboard. Clutching Boswell to his chest John willed his feet to move and approached the bed once more, dropping to his knees so he had a better view of the rise and fall of the blankets as Sherlock breathed deeply in slumber. Without his conscious permission the blonde's hand found its way to the ruffled curls once more as he smoothed them down. He was small. So small, and fragile. How was it that the great Sherlock Holmes had once been so helpless? On a logical plane the solider knew that Sherlock had to have been a child at one point, he certainly have not hatched, but seeing him now…. lifting one of his little arms John placed Boswell next to Sherlock's chest where he was quickly cuddled, the child nuzzling his nose into the bear's head. Running his hand through the curls a few more times, John stood. He had some calls to make and food to inventory; after all he had a growing boy on his hands. Reaching the door John turned back to glance at his friend once again.
"Good night Sherlock," he whispered, closing off the room with an audible click of the knob.
Possible information about John's training history was found here:
Wellingtongoose. "Semantics of Healthcare 2 - John Watson's Dual Career - Firestorm overLondon." Semantics of Healthcare 2 - John Watson's Dual Career - Firestorm over London. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 Feb. 2014.
The cliff hanger was a red herring :) Sorry but I've been trying to work through literary devices and have been struggling with that one. I had planned to have a fight scene in this chapter, but then my plans went out the window and we got mindless fluff instead.
On a completely unrelated note if anyone feels the bug to create some art based off of this story I am completely fine with that, actually it would probably make my year.
So what do you think? Are you enjoying the fluff? Did you find the Aladdin quote?
I promise the plot will pick up soon, we just need to get to know the rest of the supporting cast and hope that my fevered mind doesn't veer off track again. It may be a while until I can update again. School is picking up and I really don't want to be sick any longer. Please be patient and thank you for reading.
-Nikola
